


Blood and Lyrium

by Shiny_n_new, wittytitle111



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Hushed Whispers, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Mind Control, On Hiatus, Power Dynamics, Red Lyrium, Red Lyrium Cullen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-07-10 09:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_n_new/pseuds/Shiny_n_new, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittytitle111/pseuds/wittytitle111
Summary: Cassandra left Kirkwall with a different Templar to lead the Inquisition's troops. Commander Raleigh Samson is there for the Conclave and the Breach. He's there when the Herald of Andraste comes stumbling out of the Fade. And he's there when the Herald disappears into Redcliffe Castle and is never seen again.He is there as the end of the world comes and goes. Waiting for him is the Red General, Cullen Rutherford.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "By blood and lyrium were they drawn  
> Inexorably to the Unreachable City,  
> The heart of all creation.
> 
> At a touch, the gate swung wide,  
> And the Light parted before them like a curtain  
> Swept aside by nothing. Fearful to touch them.  
> And none saw the black mark  
> Spreading like a sore upon the shining gate  
> Where mortal hand had lain."  
> -The Canticle of Silence, 2:8-2:9
> 
> A role reversal AU where Cullen is the general of the Red Templars and Samson is the commander of the Inquisition. The Herald of Andraste never came back from Redcliffe Castle, and Corypheus' ascent to godhood is unchecked.

Well. This was certainly one way of finally getting into Redcliffe Castle. 

Their scouting party had been small, and the plan had been to move quickly and quietly in order to get the lay of the land surrounding the castle and the ruins of Redcliffe Village. With reasonably fresh troops from the regions that were still holding out in Orlais and Nevarra, it was the best chance they would get at successfully besieging and taking Redcliffe after the first siege had ended in disaster four months ago. The previous scouts had been able to move through the region undetected, and it was why Samson had risked leaving the fortifications in Orzammar to venture south and join them. 

But the scouts hadn't gone undetected, had they? The ambush had been brutally well-planned, Red Templars pouring from the trees like monsters from a children’s story. As those same Templars hauled him forward, up the steps towards what had probably been the great hall of the castle, Samson bitterly reflected that Rutherford hadn't gotten any less cunning. He had always been a patient one. 

Perhaps if Samson told him that, it would guarantee less painful death. 

With inhuman strength, the brutes hauling him bodily through the castle finally tossed him through a set of doors and into the great hall. Momentum sent him rolling into the room like a sack of potatoes. _Maker's breath, but that hurts._ He was getting too old and too broken down to take hits the way he used to.

He laid still for a moment, eyes slitted, calculating just how fucked he was. Extremely, based on a quick scan. He was quite literally surrounded by booted feet, the gleam of armor and sinister red crystal all around him. From the noise alone, he'd estimate at least 40 Red Templars in the room with him. Perhaps he could play dead long enough to-- 

"A present for you, General!" It was one of the men who had hauled him up to the castle, delight dripping from his words. "Our intelligence wasn't wrong: the Commander of the Inquisition, Raleigh Samson, traveling with a party of ten. Currently down to a party of three, counting him." 

The news that his troops were mostly dead was no surprise, and it was not nearly as concerning as the word 'General'. Samson went entirely limp, praying they'd believe he'd been knocked out.

“Congratulations, Simon. You finally did something right,” drawled a familiar voice. There was a distinctly smug edge to it, the cat with the canary in its claws. 

Oh yes, that was definitely Rutherford. It had been two years since Samson had set foot in Kirkwall, but he'd recognize the voice of his one-time bunkmate anywhere. Reports indicated that taking red lyrium had decreased his empathy while greatly increasing his sense of whimsy.

Considering what a hard-ass Rutherford had been as a Knight-Captain, Samson very much did not want to know what he was like when he was feeling evil and playful. He stayed still, stayed limp. Playing dead had gotten him out of a surprising number of scrapes in Darktown.

“Get him up,” Rutherford barked.

A pair of hands closed around each of his shoulders, yanking him to his feet. Samson couldn't stop the grunt of pain that escaped as one of the Templars dug the claws of her gauntlet into the meat of his shoulder. _No sense pretending anymore, then._

"Cullen!" Samson's cheer was decidedly forced, but it might be worth the effort if he could goad Rutherford into killing him quickly. "Long time no see. You do something new with your hair?"

Rutherford just tilted his head. “Raleigh Samson. Welcome to Redcliffe.”

Cullen had always possessed a quiet intensity about him. The red lyrium had sharpened that intensity, honed it. His eyes gleamed red, glinting in a way that was almost cat-like. Samson could swear that he was somehow taller, broader, like the lyrium had stretched and strengthened his very bones. Unlike the monstrous transformations the Red Templars surrounding him had undergone, Rutherford still looked human. Same blonde hair, same sharp jawline. He was paler than Samson remembered, like a man in the grips of a fever, but the previously ever-present dark circles under his eyes were gone entirely.

Their intelligence had been correct. Corypheus was keeping his general mostly human, somehow. Cullen _had_ always had a talent for ingratiating himself with the boss, Samson reflected bitterly.

"The welcome wasn't especially warm."

“Clever as always, even when I have you at my mercy.”

"Way I hear it, you're not one for mercy." Samson gave a grimace that could almost pass for a smile. "Might as well get a few clever last words in."

“You think I’m going to kill you?” Rutherford’s smile was amused.

A jolt of fear ran down his spine. Samson tried hard not to let it show on his face. "A bit of torture beforehand, then?" 

They had lost so many to the dark little cells in this castle. Cassandra, Leliana, Varric. They had lost the Inquisitor entirely when she vanished without a trace into the howling magic of some kind of Venatori portal. Samson supposed it was fitting enough that he met his end in Redcliffe too. It was where the Inquisition had begun to die, after all.

Rutherford didn’t bother responding to Samson. Instead, he looked to the Templar guards and jerked his chin. “Take him to solitary.”

Samson squirmed and dug in his heels, but the Templars holding him dragged him along with all the effort of a parent moving a disobedient toddler. His last sight of the great hall was Rutherford standing on the dais in the center, watching him with a distinctly predatory expression. 

Whatever grandeur Redcliffe Castle might have once had (probably not much, given that this was Ferelden), it was rapidly fading. The hanging tapestries were dirty and torn, the glass had been shattered out of numerous windows, and there were streaks of what looked like dried blood smeared along an alarming number of surfaces. Truth be told, though, all of that paled in comparison to the spikes of red lyrium crystals that grew seemingly at random, sprouting from the walls and ceiling like some kind of evil moss. Samson cringed away from the larger chunks when they dragged him by, which seemed to amuse the Templars holding him. 

He soon found out why. The cell they took him to was on an upper floor of the dungeons, in what might have once been some kind of cupboard. Now the thick wooden door opened to reveal a tiny room, empty of everything but a massive spike of red lyrium growing from the floor.

"No!" He bucked in protest, but it was like trying to shove solid stone. The Templars were implacable, forcing him into the room and slamming the door behind him. 

There was no window in the door, but Samson still heard one of the Templars call out, "Have fun, Commander!" 

Throwing himself against the door did nothing but hurt his shoulder. It was damnably solid. Samson was well and truly trapped, and he turned to stare at the red lyrium with the same distress that he would have stared at an angry bear. 

It was strange for a chunk of rock to be menacing, but it was. The lyrium _glowed_ , and Samson realized belatedly that the syrupy red light was the only source of illumination in the cell. It was warm, too, like standing near a campfire. He could feel it even in the furthest corner of the cell, where he wedged himself like a rat seeking safety.

The details on red lyrium infection, the autopsies they had done on dead Red Templars, every detail of it flooded his mind as Samson watched the lyrium warily. The good news was that he wasn't going to start crystallizing unless he ingested the shite. The bad news was that it was only a matter of time before the singing started. 

Maker, how many lyrium-maddened prisoners had the Inquisition freed, only to watch them waste away raving about "the song"? They hummed, tapped their fingers, clawed at their ears, all of it for nothing. And before that, before the Inquisition had ever existed, Samson had been there in the courtyard of the Gallows, watching Meredith howl and snarl like a wild animal. Her eyes had been red-tinted, her voice holding a strange, echoing quality, and the general consensus was that even when she finally petrified herself into some hideously contorted statue, she was probably still alive in there. 

The bitch had deserved it, of course, but the memory of her fate wasn't much of a comfort to Samson in the present.

Time passed. He had no way of knowing how much, trapped in the windowless red room as he was. He began to feel thirsty, then hungry. His stomach growled. When he had to piss, he did it in the corner opposite from him, away from the lyrium. It was probably daft, but he didn't want to feed the monstrous crystals with any of his body fluids. 

When the terrible, familiar hunger for lyrium began clawing at the back of his throat, Samson laughed raggedly. _Lyrium, lyrium everywhere, and not a drop to drink._ Rutherford knew his torture methods, that was for sure. Leliana would have been grudgingly impressed. The thirst for lyrium meant that it had been at least twelve hours since his capture. He wasn't even withdrawing yet; he had just always felt the hunger more keenly than other Templars. 

To distract himself, he started counting, trying to keep track of the minutes, the hours. He lost count often. Too often. It was becoming hard to concentrate. 

He couldn't pinpoint an exact moment when he started hearing the song. At first, he mistook it for his own heartbeat: a repetitive thump. But then he began hearing the notes, deeper and higher, a chorus of sounds that he couldn't fully name. It was alive, he could tell that much. There was a distinctly intelligent feeling behind the noises, a deliberate rhythm and variation. 

It was trying to speak to him. 

At that point, he stopped counting and tried to sing, calling up bawdy tavern songs and old patriotic Kirkwall hymns from memory to drown out the noise. For a time, it seemed to work. Then Samson realized the lyrium was matching him note for note, singing _with_ him, and the horror of it made him retch up stomach bile until he was dry heaving.

After that, he gave in and started praying. He didn't believe the Maker existed, nor did he believe Andraste was out there interceding on his behalf. But the words called up the old, nostalgic days when he had been a bright young thing that still had faith, and he clung to that comfort like a child to a ratty, well-loved blanket. 

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," Samson murmured over and over, rocking back and forth in the corner of his cell. He had put his hands up over his ears at some point, to block out the song. It didn't help. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just." 

He had careened into the Canticle of Threnodies by the time the door opened again, hours or days later. He did not look up, unsure if it was a hallucination or not. 

"You have brought Sin to Heaven," Samson breathed, his voice little more than a rasp. "And doom upon all the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a collaboration between Shiny_n_new and WittyTitle111. Posting schedule should be roughly bi-weekly. We hope you guys enjoy this journey with us into The Bad Future. This is not a character-bashing fic; we're both big fans of the dumpster fires that are Cullen and Samson.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson and Cullen get reacquainted.

The Templars said nothing as they approached. They were probably used to shuddering, praying madmen. Samson didn’t struggle when they bound his hands behind him with chains and hauled him to his feet. He would have chewed his own leg off to get out of that cell.

He was perversely grateful for their strength, as he was barely coordinated enough to put one foot in front of the other, let alone balance. Some of it was the clinging mental fog from the red lyrium, and some of it was aches and pains from sitting curled in a fetal position for days. Weeks?  


“Not as mouthy now,” one of the Templars observed, his voice holding an eerie, echoing quality.

All Samson could manage was a grunt as they hauled him up, up, up. The more stairs between the red lyrium and himself, the better. As they entered a section of the castle that was less wrecked than the lower floors, Samson felt comfortably alone in his head for the first time in...Maker, how long had he been in there? He had several days worth of stubble, he realized. More of a patchy beard than stubble, really.

This section of the castle was busier, too. As the guards marched Samson’s limp form down the hall, they passed at least a dozen Red Templars. They all peered curiously at Samson, but without any sympathy. Like they were watching a prized hog being taken to market, Samson thought woozily. He didn’t recognize any of them, thank the Maker. He wasn’t sure he could handle seeing familiar faces twisted by thick crimson veins and crystal growths. Seeing Cullen’s eyes gleaming red was already hard enough.   


They dragged him to the end of one hall, where two guards stood at rest outside the door. Probably Rutherford’s office, or quarters.  


The guard on the left called out, “The prisoner is here, General!”

_ Stand up, idiot _ , he ordered himself. He locked his knees, did his best not to pant like an injured dog.

"Enter!" came Rutherford's voice, and the guards dragged him into the room. The warmth of the crackling fireplace reminded him of the red lyrium, and he flinched before he could stop himself.

Cullen was standing behind a massive desk, looking over reports of some kind. He didn’t look up as Samson was deposited in front of the desk, simply dismissing the guards with a wave of his hand. The sound of the door closing behind them seemed uncomfortably loud.

Samson wavered on his feet like a drunk. But he stayed standing. All things considered, he would count that as a win. The light in Rutherford's quarters was too bright after his time in the cell, and it made his eyes water.  


At least, that was going to be his excuse if Rutherford pointed out the tear tracks on his face.

Once the doors were closed, Rutherford continued writing, ignoring Samson entirely. It was very deliberate, and very irritating. Samson took the opportunity to glance around the room.  


Mostly austere, with no battle trophies or decorations adorning the walls. That didn’t surprise him. Cullen had always had little time for any fripperies in Kirkwall, and had rejected all of Samson’s attempts to claim any trinkets from recently captured apostates, even when those trinkets were of the shiny sort. Most of the furniture was simple and sturdy, and the few personal possessions he could see, like the armor stand, were entirely practical. A door on the far wall was closed, likely leading to the suite’s bedroom. Samson doubted it would be any more personalized.  


He did draw some comfort, though, from the bookshelves. There were  _ four  _ of them, absolutely packed with books and pamphlets of various sizes. The wooden shelves on all of them were sagging slightly under the weight. Rutherford had been a voracious reader in Kirkwall; it hadn’t been uncommon for Samson to roll over after a quiet night to discover that Cullen had spent all evening reading by candlelight. It was blatantly an attempt to avoid sleeping, but Cullen’s interest in whatever he’d chosen was always genuine. When he was moody and withdrawn, one of the surefire ways to provoke him into a conversation had been to ask him if he’d read anything interesting lately.

Some part of that man was still alive, underneath all the red lyrium.  


Once Rutherford felt his point had been sufficiently made, he straightened and looked at Samson for the first time in several days. With a smirk, he said, “Well, well...You look like your old Kirkwall self again.”

That made Samson bare his teeth in a snarl. The worst part was, Rutherford was right. Twitchy and starved and filthy, that was Raleigh Samson that Kirkwall had known. Standing there in Cullen’s quarters, swaying on his feet, it was as if the years in between had never happened. If Hawke hadn’t intervened on his behalf, if Cassandra Pentaghast had never come along, if the Inquisition had never accepted him as Commander...would Samson still be huddled in some alley, hand out to beg for coin and scraps? The thought made self-disgust crawl up his throat like acid.

That wounded fury made him braver. Samson spat, "And you're looking distinctly like Meredith before she started howling at the moon." 

Rutherford’s eyes flashed, and it was almost as if a palpable  _ wave _ of raw lyrium energy rolled off his shoulders. For a brief second, the air around him was tinged red. “Meredith could never have dreamed of what I have accomplished.”

Samson flinched again and hated himself for it. Even just a tinge of the red lyrium's energy meant he could practically hear the song again. Still, it wouldn’t do to let Cullen know he was rattled. "Maybe you'll end up a bigger, shinier statue, then."

“I see the years haven’t dulled your idiotic wit,” Rutherford said, stepping around to the front of his desk. His tone was mild.

Samson took a step back anyway, the motion instinctive.

Cullen prowled forward until he was close enough to reach out and grab Samson roughly by his stubbled jaw. His gaze was sharp, almost a physical force on Samson’s face. “You have no idea how long I have waited to capture you.”

Samson had been right before; the red lyrium had made Cullen taller. In Kirkwall, he'd had an inch of height on the other man. Now Samson had to look up to meet his eyes.  


"Going to add my head to your collection?"  


“And risk you mouthing off post-mortem? Unlikely.”

Despite everything, despite the fact that his mind felt like it was barely holding together, that forced a chuckle out of him. Damn Rutherford and his dry humor.  _ That _ had somehow managed to survive the mountain of lyrium he'd swallowed.  


"So what, then?" Samson asked. "You can't mean to ransom me back."  


_ We don't have any money, for one thing. _

“No. I intend to…” He paused, considering his phrasing. “Show you the error of your ways.”

Samson's eyes widened, and he tried to take another step back to no avail. Rutherford's grip on him was tight as a vise, holding them inches from each other.  


"You won't make me a Red Templar, you hear me? I will die first."  


He was already enslaved to the normal lyrium, bound to that glowing blue leash for the rest of his life. The idea of having that wretched song in his head forever...death would be preferable.  


“Don’t worry,” Rutherford said, his tone still mild. “I plan on warming you up to the idea.”

Panic surged through him, and he did his best to shove Cullen away with his shoulder. "Get your hands off me!"

Cullen punched Samson, the motion nearly too fast to even follow. It felt like being kicked in the head by a horse. Samson crumpled to the ground like a cheap chair, his vision swimming with black spots. He curled instinctively, to protect his vital bits in case Rutherford was looking to get a kick in.  


His original plan  _ had  _ been to goad Cullen into beating him to death quickly. The reality of it was a bit less palpable.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for quite a while,” Rutherford said conversationally from somewhere above him. From the corner of his eye, Samson could see him flexing his hand in satisfaction.

"Congratulations," Samson slurred. There was blood in his mouth, his own blood.

The kick came swiftly, hitting him low in the gut. Samson gasped, gagged, the pain rippling like a wave through him. When he could think beyond animal pain, though, Samson reflected that both blows had been little more than love taps considering what Rutherford was capable of. There were reports of him ripping the gates off a castle keep with his bare hands.  


Panting, Samson very wisely didn't offer any further commentary.

Cullen squatted down next to him, his hands resting over his knees. The resemblance to a hungry vulture looking over a dying beast was unsettling. “You’ve done well to evade me, thus far. Meredith could never look past your mouthing off to see your potential.”

He wasn’t being sarcastic, Samson realized.  


Craning his neck to look up at Cullen, Samson said, "That may be the first compliment you've paid me in at least ten years."

“You’re resourceful. Resilient. Not many could survive in the gutters, but you did.” Again, a shocking lack of sarcasm from Rutherford. His expression was still predatory, but not otherwise mocking. “You even managed to thrive and find your way back to the light.”

Carefully, not wanting to be slapped to the ground again, Samson sat up. He felt oddly off balance, unsure what to do with Rutherford’s sincerity. "Well. Thanks. Don't suppose you'd be willing to let me go, for old time's sake?"

Cullen smirked, but it didn’t reach the cold intensity of his crimson eyes. “No. I would like to offer you something better.”

Samson squared his shoulders. "I'm not becoming one of your Red Templars, Rutherford. Not willingly, anyway."  


There was very little he could do if Cullen decided to shove a vial of the stuff down his throat. And he knew through bitter experience that lyrium could get into the body through any orifice.  


Cullen only shrugged. “Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow. But eventually, you will see it my way, Samson. Everyone always does.”

A thousand sharp statements gathered on the tip of his tongue, but Samson could already feel a massive bruise starting to bloom where Cullen had tapped him before. Instead, he asked, "And so what's to become of me until then? Back to the cell?"

“You’ll probably wish you were going back into solitary.” Cullen stood, rising to his full height and looking down on Samson. “At first, anyway.”

_ That _ was not encouraging. A muscle twitching in his jaw, Samson said, "I dunno, my cellmate wasn't exactly pleasant."

Cullen walked slowly back over to his desk, apparently unconcerned with turning his back on Samson. And why would he be? As if he was commenting on a fine piece of statuary in a Chantry, he said, “Well-disciplined mages and Tranquil can do wonderful things, you know.”

Samson’s anger was never very far from the surface, and before he could think better of it, he spat, "Yeah, you sodding love your Tranquil, don't you?"

“As do you,” Cullen replied simply.

With a grimace, Samson looked away. That had been a good shot, he had to hand it to Rutherford. The fall of Val Royeaux four months ago had already been crushing. Knowing Maddox was dead somewhere in the rubble just twisted the knife.

There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, a desk drawer opening. Samson looked up to see Cullen set a finely-ornamented metal box on the desk. The box was slender but wide, about the size of a heavy book, and candlelight flickered across the engravings on its black surface.

Samson knew he was playing into Rutherford's hands, but he had always been nosy. "So. What is that?"

“A tool recently designed by the Venatori for interrogation. I’ve had some modifications made to it.” Cullen skimmed his fingers across the top of the box, not yet opening it.

"In the mood for some hands-on torture? I'm honored."  


Sarcasm was safer, easier. It helped him resist the urge to plead.

“We’ll start with short sessions,” Cullen said crisply, like a teacher announcing the lessons for the day. “The effects can be unpredictable, and it would be a shame to lose you so early.”

Samson tilted his jaw up, teeth bared again in some combination of fear and defiance. "Do it, Rutherford. I was a Templar once too, not some quivering little mageling who'll cry at a hint of pain."

Cullen smiled. “We will see.”  


Without opening the box, he walked over to the center of the room and knelt to slide a stone out from the floor. Samson had a crack about secret caches on the tip of his tongue, but his words dried up as Rutherford withdrew a long chain and shackle from the now-open compartment. He let it fall to the ground, the shiny links of metal coiling like a snake. Leaning forward again, he moved a different stone and pulled out an identical length of chain, also ending in a shackle.  


His touch was rough as he grabbed Samson and dragged him over to the shackles, and Samson’s attempts to dig in his heels accomplished nothing at all. Rutherford pushed him back down to his knees, and when Samson instinctively tried to rise and squirm away, Cullen put a hand on top of his head and pressed down.

The strength behind Rutherford’s grip was obvious. As if he was talking to a disobedient dog, Cullen scolded, “No.”

Those hands could crack his skull open like an egg. Samson stayed down.

In the end, Samson was released from one set of manacles only to be locked into another. The lengths of chain allowed him to bring his arms to his sides, but no further forward, and kept him from raising his hands above stomach height. He could probably have risen into an awkward half-crouch, but Samson opted to maintain a little dignity and just stay on his knees.  


He had to wet his lips and clear his throat before he could force out a quip. "Set this up in your office, did you? Kinky."

In Kirkwall, in the early days, a comment like that would have made Cullen blush. Even when he was a hard-ass Knight-Captain, it would have warranted an awkward cough and perhaps a glare.

The Red General just smirked. “I find that some offenders require a more personal touch.”  


He returned to his desk, fingers skimming over the top of the box again. His gaze was hungry, drinking in Samson’s reactions.

_ Do not beg _ , Samson told himself. He wouldn't give Rutherford the satisfaction. His determination didn't stop him from fruitlessly yanking at the chains, again and again, sharp and abortive movements.

Slowly, Cullen opened the box and drew out an iron circlet. The metal was dark and smooth, with no carvings or embossments. The only decoration was the chunks of raw, glowing red lyrium that studded it like gemstones.

"Maker's fucking--" Samson scrambled back as far as the chains allow. The sight of more red lyrium sent his pulse pounding, nausea rising in his throat.

“Don’t worry, Raleigh,” Cullen said, turning the circlet in his hands. “Only prolonged exposure to the crown will result in madness. I intend to keep your mind intact.”

He rounded the desk again, his smile predatory. “Most of it, anyway.  


"Don't." It wasn’t begging if he made it an order, Samson told himself. "Don't get that near me."

But Rutherford ignored him, of course, advancing like the tide. The circlet gleamed in his hands.

Samson gritted his teeth, his breath whistling out in sharp bursts. When he was in range, Cullen grabbed Samson easily by the throat to keep him still. He lowered the circlet onto his head with no particular fanfare.

It was surprisingly light, considering the amount of raw lyrium embedded in it. Certainly lighter than a Templar helmet, anyway. Samson stayed very still once it was on him, waiting for...something. Anything.

The song hit him first, like a horn blasting in his ear. It was a nearly physical force, and it was just as loud and eager as it had been in his cell. Samson jerked his head to the side, snarling, but moving didn't make the song any quieter. It rattled like a symphony through his skull.

As he squirmed, the circlet seemed to get hotter and hotter against his scalp, as if the metal itself was being heated. He was thrashing now, to no avail. His vision started to blur and then everything took on a red tinge, like he was peering through a sheet of crimson stained glass.

"Take it off!" Maker above, what was the damned thing  _ doing  _ to him? He had a brief, horrifying thought of red crystals growing out of his eyes.

“You will do as I say, Raleigh. I will be your savior.” Rutherford’s voice was calm, steady. The tone was almost gentle, but firm as stone.

Samson stared up at him, uncomprehending, the world painted shades of red. "No! Take this sodding thing off of me! It's burning!"

In the same calm voice, Cullen said, “I will be your savior. I am the answer to your pain.”

The song howled around him, like the winds in a storm, and Samson felt a strange, uncomfortable heat building inside of his skull. Cullen's words seemed to reverberate, almost merging with the song screaming through his mind. "I...what?! What in the fucking Void are you talking about?! Take...make this..."  


“I will be your savior, Raleigh. Do as I say. I will keep you safe.”

He moaned raggedly as the burning in his head built. It was like lying inches from a campfire, but the sensation was in his mind. It was some kind of blood magic, that was certain. Under other circumstances, he might have used his Templar training to endure it. But the lyrium  _ screamed _ . Rutherford was...Cullen could…

“Obey me. Your only concern is pleasing me. I will be your savior.

_ Cullen can stop this all of this. _

The next few seconds (or was it minutes? Hours? Time was unsteady and slipping) were a strange, almost dreamy blur. The world wavered in shades of red. The lyrium sang. Cullen spoke. Samson moaned and panted.  


Samson was nearly delirious when he felt the light weight on his head disappear completely. It took a good minute and a half before Samson could fully understood that the crown was gone, that the song had stopped. Its echoes still reverberated through him, like a drum skin vibrating, but they grew fainter and fainter. The red in his vision started to fade, other colors reasserting themselves.  


"Wha..." He blinked up at Cullen, his mind feeling like a damp sponge that had been squeezed. He was slumped onto his hands and knees, he realized. He couldn’t remember moving.

Cullen stood above him, staring down at him curiously. His hands were empty, so he must have put the circlet away when Samson was still drooling and thrashing on the floor. “Hmm. Resilient.”

Samson stared up at him, mouth agape. "Wha-what did that just do to me?!"

“Think of it as…” Cullen paused, considering, and then smiled in a deceptively friendly way. “Loosening you up.”

"I--" Samson waited to be flooded with fury, with terror, with a sense of violation and all the other normal emotions he should have been feeling. They were there, churning in his gut, but were all strangely muted. It felt more like he was remembering feeling angry rather than actually being angry in that moment.

The strongest emotion, the one that rose to the surface again and again, was a sense of calm, warm peace. Nestled in his mind, as natural as his own thoughts, was a general feeling that things would probably be fine, just as long as Cullen was there.

  
With horror (but not  _ enough  _ horror), Samson murmured, "Oh, Maker."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson wins friends and influences people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blocks of texts in italics denote flashbacks.

“You’re probably hungry and thirsty, aren’t you, Raleigh? Would you like to eat something?” Cullen’s voice was friendly, amiable, like they were meeting up after a long shift in the Gallows and deciding what to do with the evening.

The worst part was that Samson was absolutely fucking famished. Was the desire to chirp out a 'yes' because of that, or because of the circlet?   


Either way, starving himself wouldn’t help a damned thing. Samson grimaced. "Yes. Yes, you bastard."

“DuMarc!” barked Cullen.   


The door to the hallway opened. A tall, dark-haired Templar stepped into the room and saluted smartly. “Ser?”   


“Take Raleigh to the tower room. Make sure he is fed and given water.”   


The Templar, DuMarc, nodded and strode over to where Samson was chained. If he was at all surprised to find the Commander of the Inquisition chained to the floor of Cullen’s office, he didn’t show it. Businesslike, he unshackled Samson and pulled him to his feet.

Samson's gaze darted between the two of them. "I..."   


Some part of him wanted to stay. Some part of him wanted to dig in his heels and demand to stay with Cullen, where it was ‘safe’.  _ Fuck _ .

“Oh, and DuMarc?” said Cullen as he returned to his desk, his tone already bored and dismissive. “Don’t be too rough.”   


The dark-haired Templar only grinned wider and saluted a final time before he started to drag Samson towards the door.

"I..." There was no dignified way to finish whatever stupid thought was tumbling through his head. With a grunt, Samson turned away from Cullen and let himself be yanked.

Another Templar waited outside the door, her dark skin greyish in pallor thanks to the red lyrium’s effects. A small scattering of crystalline growths were clearly visible through her close-cropped hair. Wordlessly, the pair flanked him on either side and began marching him down the hall.   


‘ _ Two Templars at minimum for any transfer of a potential flight risk’ _ , Samson remembered, the standard procedures for everyday life in the Gallows suddenly flooding back into his mind. He could almost hear Knight-Commander Guylian’s voice, drilling it into them.  _ ‘For prisoners, especially violent ones, another pair should follow at a short distance.’ _

Meredith had kept the same protocols in place. Cullen would have learned them at her heel. Samson didn’t have a chance to turn and check if another pair of red monstrosities were following them, though. The Templars holding onto him kept a brisk and brutal pace, nearly yanking him off his feet if he faltered.

The walk, rough as it was, did clear his head and made reality feel a little less shaky. Enough that he could be a disagreeable shit, anyway, which admittedly didn't take much. "Oi, unless you're trying to tear my arms out of the sockets, ease up."

They ignored him entirely, but their grips became a little tighter.  _ Predictable _ , Samson thought with a grunt. But the idea of food, water, and not being surrounded by either red lyrium or people full of red lyrium was tempting beyond words. He let himself be yanked along without any struggle.

They half-escorted, half-carried him down a flight of stairs, winding expertly through the lyrium-riddled hallways. Samson spied a few other Red Templars, but no civilians or Venatori. At an intersection of corridors, they made a sharp left and led him up the narrow, winding spiral staircase of a tower.

Midway up, they finally came to a stop outside of a heavy wooden door. A small, barred window had been cut into the top of it, and there was a grate of some kind along the bottom, but the only other adornments were the heavy iron bar across the center and the thick padlock hanging from the latch. Samson doubted a Qunari would be able to kick the door down, let alone a tired, half-starved human.

Once the door was open, the Templars literally tossed him in. He tumbled onto the stone floor like a drunk, only a thin scattering of straw there to break his fall. When he rolled to a stop in the center of the room, the pained grunt he let out was pathetic even to his own ears.

Samson was rapidly coming to wish Rutherford had just cut his damned head off.

“What a pathetic shit!” laughed the male Templar. DuMarc? His accent was mostly Kirkwall, with some faint hints of Orlesian. Following Samson into the cell, DuMarc continued, “Some great Commander. No wonder the Inquisition are sheep for the slaughter. I don’t even break a sweat killing those pious pigs anymore.”

It was obviously bait, and Samson let himself fall for it anyway as fury sparked through him like tinder catching fire. He pushed himself onto his feet, offered the Templar his best sneer, and said, "You must not be too good at it. Otherwise you'd be out on the front line instead of here, guarding men who can barely stand.  _ Scary _ ."

DuMarc smiled, clearly pleased that Samson still had some fight in him. He stepped towards Samson, loomed over him and into his personal space. DuMarc was even taller than Rutherford, and there was a patient, mean cunning in his red eyes. He said nothing, the threat obvious without words.   


_ Oh, this is going to hurt _ . But if life in Darktown had taught Samson nothing else, it had taught him to survive a beating. He licked his lips, squared his jaw, and said, "Sorry. What I meant was: your mother was a pox-riddled whore with a loose cunt."

The punch was swift and well-aimed, cracking across his cheekbone and sending pain exploding through his face. Sprawled across the floor, he could taste his own blood and wasn't sure if he'd bitten himself or if it was leaking down from his nose. For a brief moment, he couldn’t even tell up from down

DuMarc didn’t wait for Samson to recover before kicking him in the ribs, knocking the breath out of him completely. The Templar wrapped a hand around the back of Samson’s neck and picked him up as effortlessly as a man picking up a puppy by the scruff. He propped Samson back onto his feet, only to drive his fist into Samson’s gut.   


"Don't kill him, ser," said the female Templar standing at the door. Her tone was light, amused, like she was watching a troupe of street performers. "You know the General's got plans for him."

“Don’t worry, yeah?” DuMarc said, looking briefly over his shoulder. “He just told me to not be too rough. Be pretty sorry if this one couldn’t take a few hits.” He turned his attention back to Samson and yelled straight into his ear, “You that weak, Commander Shitson?”   


Flinching back as far as he could, it took Samson a few seconds to clear the black spots swimming through his vision. Then he reared back and hocked a gob of blood and spit towards DuMarc's face.

The bloody phlegm landed on DuMarc’s cheek, and Samson had just enough time to think,  _ Ah, my aim's still true _ . Then DuMarc’s fist him him like a brick, sending him into an unconscious, boneless sprawl on the floor of the cell.

The Templar at the door, Paget, just sighed. "That best not have knocked whatever's still in his brain loose, or the General will have both our heads."

DuMarc wiped the gob of blood off his cheek with a grimace, and spat on Samson. “He’ll be alright. C’mon, let’s go.”

Paget shook her head, stepping back to allow DuMarc out of the room. As she slid the iron bar across the door and locked up, she asked, "You think the General will have him crawling through the mess hall barking by next week? Those little crowns the Venatori created are no jest."

“Be a riot if he does,” DuMarc laughed. Between the two of them, they had lost nearly three dozen squadmates to the Inquisition’s ambushes and sieges over the year. If anyone deserved to have those wrongs taken out of his hide, it was Commander Raleigh Samson. “Probably not until he’s had him every way you can have someone.”

That made Paget snicker, and she gave the door a final rattle to test it before she and DuMarc headed down the stairs. "You know, I heard he used to be a beggar back when he was stationed in Kirkwall? The Inquisition dog, obviously, not the General.  _ And  _ he was actually tossed out of the Templars on his arse. What were those Chantry fools thinking, to appoint him?"

“Least he kept with what he knows: losing.”   


Their voices faded to nothing as they descended the tower, their conversation already turning to more important matters. The Breach, the Elder One’s wishes, collecting the harvests from the surviving peasants who had bent the knee to the new god of this world. The end of days had come and gone, but that didn’t mean they were any less busy.

Samson had no such worldly concerns to distract him when he regained consciousness a few moments later. He could hear the fading snatches of their conversation, but his thoughts were a scrambled, pained muddle. A nice lie-down in the straw seemed like the best strategy for the foreseeable future. Samson flopped into a more comfortable position and catalogued his aches.

Both sides of his face were throbbing with pain. There’d be bruises for certain, the deep black kind that took ages to heal. From the feel of it, his left eye was probably going to swell closed as well. A quick inventory assured him that all of his teeth were still in place, though, so at least he had that going for him.   


His ribs and gut were both distinct and terrible aches, and there was a worryingly sharp pain when he moved. He’d be pissing blood for the rest of the day without a doubt. Pushing his hand against his side nearly made him black out again, but it did reassure him that his ribs hadn’t been caved in.

Beneath all that, less immediate but no less real, was hunger and thirst. And wrapped around it all was a desperate, clawing need for lyrium. Out of everything, the thirst for lyrium would probably drive him mad the fastest. On the bright side, the thirst for water would kill him before that could happen.

Maker’s balls, he was a mess. All things considered, though, DuMarc had been careful. It would have been child’s play for him to mortally injure Samson. The Red Templars probably had to put more effort into  _ not  _ accidentally maiming their prisoners.   


This had all been Cullen’s doing, of course. Whatever that monstrous little circlet had done, Samson wasn’t so addled that he missed the obvious. It had been a common strategy of theirs, back in the Gallows. One of them would play the friendly Templar, the one who was agreeable and just wanted a quick chat. Usually, that was Samson’s role. He was good at being amiable, always ready with a smile and a quip. Cullen would play the suspicious Templar, stern and unyielding, his manner as polished and hard as his armor. For the mages or suspects more likely to respond well to a pretty young thing, though, they had switched off; Samson had been the sneering, looming arsehole, Cullen the calm-spoken ally. Either way, the strategy had worked brilliantly well, letting them extract information and names without ever needing to draw their swords.

They had been a good team, once upon a time.

But that was in the past. Here in the present, Cullen was playing the friendly leader, the bringer of mercy. His little minions were playing the thugs. No matter what Samson’s instincts might be, no matter what foul blood magic that circlet had worked, he could not start viewing Cullen as a lifeline-   


Rutherford. He could not start viewing  _ Rutherford  _ as a lifeline.   


Samson had managed to fall into a light, painful doze when the door rattled again. He opened his eyes just slightly, not moving from where he was curled on the floor. But rather than open the door, whoever was on the other side just slid a bowl through the grating at the bottom and left without a word. Samson stayed motionless for a few beats, waiting to see if anyone else was there for a visit. When it was clear he was alone, he heaved himself up and crawled over to the bowl.

It wasn’t much. A waterskin, blessedly full. A small, slightly moldy hunk of cheese, no bigger than an arrowhead. The hard heel from a loaf of dark bread. And…

The apple was large, the skin a rich, healthy red. When Samson picked it up cautiously, his mouth watering, it was firm. How long had it been since he’d eaten fresh fruit? Months, at least. The dwarves of Orzammar could do a surprising amount to make fungus palatable, but it was nothing compared to crops from the surface. With famine wracking every country in Thedas as Corypheus’ power expanded, the price of even a pound of apples had soared astronomically.   


And now Cullen had sent him one, gleaming and smelling like summer.

Wary, Samson put the apple back into the bowl and reached for the waterskin. He guzzled half of it in a few breathless seconds, taking small sips once the wild thirst in his throat faded. When only a quarter of the water was left, he sealed the skin back up. There was no telling when they would feed him again. With the skin and bowl of food safely in hand, he retreated back to the far corner of the cell where he had been resting. If the Red Templars wanted their tableware back, they could come in and get it.

Safely back in his nest, Samson considered the apple, rolling it from one hand to another. It was a trap. It was  _ clearly  _ a trap. But would it sodding matter at all if he ended up too malnourished to even think straight?

...it just had to be a damned apple.   


_ Samson didn’t want another bunkmate. He’s enjoyed the novelty of having his tiny quarters to himself after poor Mullins got killed by a maleficarum. So when the quartermaster had told him a week ago that the new boy from Ferelden was bunking with him, Samson had sulked and whined to anyone who would listen. But he isn’t a complete git. On the day the new meat arrives, Samson uses his considerable charm to wheedle a present for him from the kitchen staff. _

_ “Oi, catch!” Samson says, tossing the ripe red apple. _

_ The new arrival (Cailan? Callum? Something with a ‘C’) catches the apple with a startled look, staring at Samson in confusion. He’s pale, the way the Fereldens tended to be, with a mess of curly blonde hair. He can’t be older than twenty, if that. Pretty, despite the deep purple bags under his eyes that spoke of a lack of sleep. Seasick on the way over, perhaps?   
_

_ “I...what is this?” Possibly-Collin asks, looking at the apple as if it might bite him. _

_ “Fruit. I’d heard they had that in Ferelden, apologies if I was wrong.” Samson sticks out his hand to shake. “Raleigh Samson. We’re to be bunkmates.” _

_ Cautiously, the boy reaches out with his free hand. “Er, Cullen. I mean, I’m Cullen Rutherford.” _

_ Ha! He’d been close. Samson gives his hand a firm shake before he hefts himself up onto the top bunk. From his perch, he says, “Welcome to Kirkwall and all that. The city’s a bit of a shithole, but it has its charms.” _

_ Cullen offers him a small, unsure smile that was more of a grimace. Glancing down at the apple, he asks, “Forgive me, I thought that the midday meal had already passed?” _

_ “It did, but the cooks like me.” Samson makes a show of preening. “They think I’m handsome.” _

_ That earns him a real smile. “Ah, well then, thank you. I’m afraid I didn’t bring you any snacks.” _

_ “Eh, you can make it up to me later.” _

And here they were, twelve years later.

Did knowing it was a trap make it less of a trap? Was Cullen having a good laugh in his office, imagining Samson staring bug-eyed at an apple like it held the mysteries of the ancients?

“Piss on it,” Samson murmured in defeat. It had been so long since he’d eaten something sweet.

The apple was tart and lovely, the juice spraying across his tongue as he bit into it. Perfectly ripe, perfectly firm, the smell of it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Chewing stretched the blooming bruises on his face uncomfortably. He didn’t care. Samson didn’t stop until the apple had been chewed down to its core.

Andraste’s pyre, he was doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are going to bang eventually, this isn't just going to be Samson getting punched and eating fruit for multiple chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson makes several suggestions, some better than others. Cullen is reminded of the difficulty inherent in mind-controlling a naturally stubborn person.

“I am your savior, Raleigh. Give in to me.”

Samson was insensate, half-sobbing against the floor as the crown burnt fire straight into his mind. He wanted to resist, wanted to fight, but in the haze of it all, he couldn't even remember what he was resisting. "No no no no..."

“This doesn’t have to go on like this. I can help you.” Cullen’s voice was the only lifeline he had in the whirling chaos.

Through a blur of tears and sharp, terrible red, Samson saw Cullen kneel down in front of him, putting them roughly on the same level. When he reached out, it was only to gently cup Samson’s cheek. His skin was cool compared to the unbearable heat of the crown, and Samson leaned into the touch desperately, like a man crawling to shade in the desert.

"Maker, Maker, _please_ ," he slurred. Cullen could make all of this stop. Cullen would help him.

“You can achieve greatness with my help.” Cullen’s voice was sweet, sensible, a balm to Samson’s mind. “You will never be in pain again.”

"Take it off," Samson gasped, turning his face to nuzzle desperately against Cullen's hand like a dog seeking comfort. "Please, please, take it _off_."

His sense of time while wearing the circlet had not gotten any more accurate. Cullen could have been staring down at him for a few seconds, or for a few minutes. Samson had no way to tell. But finally, Cullen let out a small growl of irritation and yanked the crown roughly off Samson’s head.

Collapsing onto the stone floor, Samson sucked in air desperately and probably too quickly. The stone beneath him was blessedly cool. Samson always came out of these little sessions faintly surprised that the circlet hadn’t burnt all the skin off of his skull. There were never any marks at all, though. Whatever it was doing to him, it was all internal.

The thought was not terribly reassuring.

There was a muffled clanging sound, and he rolled to see the source. Cullen had tossed the crown onto his desk without much care, like it was a cheap paperweight. He was staring at Samson, his irritated expression familiar.

The silence was unpleasant. When he was reasonably sure he could speak without screaming, Samson grunted, "My brain's leakin’ out my ears."

“I should be impressed, you know,” Cullen drawled, in the tone of a man talking to a stubborn horse. “Most don’t make it to their third session without giving in or going mad. You’ve made it to your fifth.”

Confirmation that this was the fifth time made Samson shudder. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed since his capture; his cell had no windows and he had only been fed and watered again two other times. They were deliberately keeping to an irregular schedule to make him disoriented. It was working damnably well.

When he was feeling like a glutton for punishment, Samson sometimes peered out of his cell and asked passing guards how long it had been since Cullen had summoned him last. The Templars, though, were in on the plan. When they bothered to respond at all, they’d given Samson lengths of times such as six years, or two and a half hours, or his favorite: “The General hasn’t ever spoken to you.” His best guess was four days since he’d been pulled from the red lyrium cell in the upper dungeons, but that was honestly just a guess.

There was a distinct crack in his voice when Samson asked, "What...what do you _want_ from me, damn it?”

Cullen said nothing, still staring at Samson as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Kiss your boots?” Samson asked, forcing himself up into a sitting position. “Suck your cock? Compose a fucking hymn to Corypheus?"

With a startling speed, Cullen slammed his fist on his desk so hard that the entire room seemed to shake. His eyes burning red, he demanded, “Why will you not surrender?! I am giving you a choice!”

"A choice at swordpoint's not much of a choice." But it was all talk, and he knew it. And Cullen knew it, too. It was getting harder to kick and spit venom, and he was a little more docile after every one of these sessions. Eventually, Cullen would wear him down. It was a matter of time. Even if the red lyrium wasn’t doing _anything_ to him, the strain of captivity would do its work.

Samson knew the danger of sinking into his dark thoughts for too long. It had been a swamp that pulled him down too many times in Kirkwall, leaving him miserable and sullen for weeks even when he wanted to cheer up. Sometimes whole months had passed with him too bitterly angry to make more than a token effort at keeping himself alive. Even the illusion of some kind of control would make him feel better.

With all that in mind, Samson added, "Maybe your technique needs some work?"

“Or I could just shove you full of red lyrium and let you rot,” Cullen snapped, still glaring daggers at him.

Samson gritted his teeth, but kept at it. "I'm just saying. You keep telling me that you only want to help me, that you want to 'save' me." He lifted his shackled arms. "Not feeling very safe chained down and dying of lyrium withdrawal."

Cullen tilted his head slightly. “...I suppose you’re right. You haven’t had a dose in some time.”

‘Some time’ was maddeningly vague, but Samson estimated his last dose had been at least forty-eight hours ago. It had barely been worth drinking. They’d brought him a half-full vial of watered-down lyrium, so thin he had barely been able to taste it. He suspected it was the leftovers from some Venatori’s crafting.

He’d still licked the bottle clean, of course.

“And I'd feel oh-so-grateful if I got a dose now," Samson said, licking his lips without much conscious control. It wasn't even subtle manipulation. But then, neither were Cullen's efforts, so perhaps they were a matched pair in those regards.

“Very well.” Cullen went to the door and gave orders. Samson was gratified to hear that he specified _blue_ lyrium. When he returned to Samson’s side, he gestured at him to lift his arms.

After five of these sessions, it didn't even strike Samson as strange to raise his chained hands so that Cullen could reach them more easily. The circlet was chipping away at him so slowly and carefully. He couldn't even tell what was the red lyrium and what was simply his own exhaustion.

Once Samson was unshackled, Cullen still loomed above him, clearly brooding. His eyebrows were furrowed, like he was staring down at a stubbornly complex puzzle.

Samson couldn't help himself. "Rough day, love?"

Cullen boxed his right ear.

"Ah, fuck!" He had probably earned that, though.

Apparently satisfied, Cullen walked back to his desk. He didn’t take his eyes off Samson, but his gaze was less intense. His tone was earnest when he said, “I don’t want to break you down into nothing, Raleigh. But you make this so hard.”

Samson rubbed the side of his head with an exaggerated expression of pain. When he saw no particular remorse on Cullen’s face, he sighed and shuffled backwards until he was sitting with his back propped against the wall. "Uh-huh. Well, I appreciate the desire not to make me a gibbering madman."

Cullen rubbed his own temples with a sigh. He had a stress headache building, Samson would have bet anything. _Well, that’s his own fault._

Still, Samson wisely kept quiet after that, until a knock at the door had him perking up. "Oooh, that'll be the lyrium, then."

Without a word, Cullen went to the door. Sure enough, he turned back to reveal a vial of lyrium, the blue as deep and rich as a summer sky. Samson did his best to look appropriately cowed as Cullen dismissed the guard and closed the door. There was no sense in provoking Cullen when the lyrium was actually in sight. His mouth watered at the familiar sapphire glow, a thirst deeper than anything else roaring back to life inside him.

“When you were in the gutters of Kirkwall, what would you do for just a taste of lyrium?” Cullen sounded contemplative. He walked to the center of the room, where Samson’s chains lay discarded. For once, he wasn’t looking at Samson. Instead, he held up the vial of lyrium like he was checking it for debris or poorly-ground clusters of dust.

Samson bit his lip, swallowing down the urge to tell Cullen to get fucked. He did not want to play this game. Maker knew he had played it enough when he was actually _in_ Kirkwall, bargaining off pieces of his dignity to stay alive.

Still, this was better than the circlet. He could do this dance, and would do it gladly if it would get him lyrium. "Did a lot of things. Robbed people, smuggled mages out of the Gallows right under your nose..."

“What else?” Cullen could afford to be patient. He had the lyrium.

Samson swallowed harshly and tilted his head up to meet Cullen’s stare. "Begged, like a gutter mongrel. Is that what you want to hear?"

Cullen was silent for a moment, rolling the vial between his fingers and thumb. The blue inside caught the light. His gaze was terribly, terribly knowing when he finally repeated, “ _What else?_ ”

It was like falling into a snowdrift, a shock of cold that went through Samson’s entire body in an instant. _No, no, no._ "I...don't know what you mean."

Raising an eyebrow, Cullen grabbed one of the chairs in front of his desk and dragged it to the center of the room. He didn’t sit, not yet, simply standing behind it with a knowing smirk.

Survival for a disgraced ex-Templar in Kirkwall had been a constant balancing act. He had needed food, he had needed lyrium, he had needed shelter. Coin provided all that, but coin had been hard to come by in a city already flooded with desperate refugees. With every mercenary company inundated with hired swords desperate for jobs, Samson had found himself floundering for any work he could find. _Any_ work. He was no nubile young thing that would turn heads at the Blooming Rose, of course. But…

But there were always people looking for a bit of rough trade, looking to spend an hour or two with someone who had a gruff voice and calloused hands who’d whisper filthy things to them. And there were always apostates (or people who wanted to play at it) that liked seeing a Templar on his knees. It hadn’t been Samson’s preferred way of making money. But coin was coin. In the lean times, with no smuggling ‘clients’ and no scraps of mercenary work, it had gotten him by.

He’d always prayed that none of his former comrades-in-arms had known what lengths desperation drove him to. _Chalk that up to another prayer the Maker ignored_.

Samson thumped his head back against the wall behind him, the burst of pain grounding him and pulling him from his memories. "So. You had your little spies reporting on me, did you, _Knight-Captain_?"

“Spies?” Cullen sneered. “Don’t act so self-important.”

"Oh, am I to assume you were just lurking behind some boxes at the docks, then?" His lip was raised in a snarl, his teeth bared. It wasn’t exactly the image of calm indifference he’d been hoping to project, but Cullen had always been good at getting under his skin.

“As I heard it, you didn’t just do it by the docks.”

That managed to surprise a dark, bitter chuckle out of him. Samson ran a hand across his face nervously, his jaw tightening. "You know, that offer to suck your cock earlier was mostly hypothetical."

Cullen finally sat down on the chair. Very deliberately, he sprawled a bit and let his legs spread. “You keep resisting.”

Samson stared at him, a rabbit in a snare. It was the guttersnipe in him that kicked to life then, not the Inquisition's Commander. The guttersnipe saw the lyrium, saw the opportunity, and was not too proud to do what it took to stay alive. And as cocks went, Cullen Rutherford’s was at least a good one.

"All right.” He was pleased that his voice didn’t shake. He sounded as calm as a man haggling over the price of fruit. “But I think this ought to earn me more than the lyrium."

Cullen gestured at the floor between the spread of his legs. “Come and get what you want.”

Samson swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment. He had gotten out of the habit of picturing Cullen naked, the days when they had bunked together long past. Fumbling hands, stolen pleasure, and muffled, shared laughter hadn’t meant much to the Knight-Captain when Samson was tossed out on his arse. But apparently General Rutherford was feeling nostalgic.

When Samson opened his eyes again, he was wearing the smirk that had been his shield through all of Kirkwall's underworld. The facade of bravado and sleaze let him pretend to be someone else, somewhere else. His movements slow and deliberate, Samson pushed off the wall. On his hands and knees, he began crawling to Cullen. "Like this?"

Cullen sneered again, his expression faintly disgusted. “No. I’m not a client at a whorehouse. I want you, Raleigh Samson, to come here.”

That stopped Samson short and left him floundering. "I..."

The facade peeled away just as quickly as he’d managed to put it up, and it left behind no one but Samson the bad-tempered ex-Templar, still crouched awkwardly on the floor. After a moment of panic that was probably obvious, he shoved himself to his feet with an irritated huff. Nearly stomping, he closed the distance between them and stood over Cullen with a scowl. "Fine. Here I am."

Cullen looked up at him, amused. “Kneel. And be contrite about it.”

Still scowling, Samson knelt. Cullen’s muscled thighs framed him on either side, the dark leather of his trousers filling Samson’s vision. He looked up, met Cullen’s hungry red gaze, and had to look down after a moment. Heat burned in his cheeks. "All right. I--what do you want me to do?"

“Just sit there and remember that this is where you belong.”

Being in his own head was the absolute last place Samson wanted to be right then, and it made him surly. Well, surlier. He fumbled again for the illusion of control that had started this whole debacle. Making his movements very obvious, he leaned his cheek against Cullen's knee. "Right here?"

It was gratifying to watch Cullen’s jaw tense. “I’ll remind you that you wouldn’t have to do this if you would give in.”

Not breaking eye contact, Samson reached up and rested a hand on Cullen's other knee. "Have you ever known me to make things easy, _General_?"

Cullen’s lips quirked, just slightly. “Not ever.”

His rubbed his thumb against the inside of Cullen's knee. "So I ask again: do you want me to just kneel here and bat my eyes at you?"

Cullen’s eyes met his. Samson knew he wasn’t imagining the heat in his gaze, familiar even through the red. He crowed to himself, smug despite the fact that he was about to have a cock halfway down his throat. Rutherford might not have much use for him, but he wasn’t completely made of stone. Not yet, anyway. There were still a few lingering vices Samson could needle at.

“Precisely.” The heat didn’t leave Cullen’s eyes, but the smirk on his lips grew. “Now, open up for your lyrium dose like the obedient stray dog you are.”

Taken aback, Samson’s carefully crafted expression crumpled into a furious glare. He yanked his head away from Cullen’s knee, baring his teeth in a snarl. _How dare_ Rutherford say no? It wasn’t exactly logical, but the indignation burned nearly as hot as the anger.

“Oh? Changed your mind, have you?” Cullen shifted, as if he was going to get up.

"No!" The word burst out before he could stop it, the addict in him howling. To have the lyrium so close and then taken away...even the thought made him want to shake. Maker, how he hated it, nearly as much as he hated himself. But the self-loathing could wait until the lyrium was safely humming through his veins.

Cheeks reddening further in humiliation, Samson grimaced and opened his mouth. There was no seduction in it. He imagined he must look a bit like a baby bird waiting for a meal, head tilted up. The temptation to close his eyes and block out the world was strong, but the idea felt a bit too much like turning his back on a predator.

“That’s better.” With the ease of a lifetime of practice, Cullen pulled open the stopper on the vial. The glass rim rested achingly close to Samson’s lips, hovering just above his face. Patiently, carefully, Cullen tilted it forward until a small stream of droplets tipped into Samson’s mouth.

Samson had time to think, _Ah, he’s springing for the strong stuff._ No leftover dregs in this vial. Then the bright, sparking taste of lyrium truly hit him, running down his tongue and throat like mother’s milk. The shiver ripped through his whole body, like his very bones were rising up in celebration of having the lyrium back in him. Some of the more pious Templars had believed lyrium was as close to the Maker’s true favor as this world would ever receive, a glimmering token of love and affection. When he had gone too long without, Samson believed that too. He never felt better than when there was lyrium on his lips.

Samson wanted to cling to his anger, his humiliation, his fear. But after so long without a real dose of lyrium, the taste of it ripped a helpless, hungry sound out of him that seemed to carry away all the fight he had left. The only response that made even the slightest sense was to tilt his head back further and open his mouth wider, eyes closing completely.

Somewhere above him, Cullen made a pleased humming sound.

When probably half the bottle was gone down Samson's throat, he swayed. His head rested against Cullen’s knee again, but it was out of necessity rather than an attempt at seduction. He felt wonderfully boneless, every muscle relaxed and every ache gone.

Gentle fingers ran through his hair, the movements soft and fond. The final drops of lyrium fell onto Samson’s tongue, and then Cullen said, “See how wonderful it is when you give in?”

For the first time in over a week, Samson wasn't in any kind of pain. Even the stone beneath his knees was easy to bear. Moreover, he _felt_ wonderful, peaceful and happy like he was lounging in a hammock by the sea. He nodded thoughtlessly at Cullen's words, leaning into the fingers in his stroking his hair. He had to wrap an arm around Cullen's leg to keep himself upright, but that wasn’t bad at all. Cullen was warm.

“There, there.” Cullen’s voice was gentle, soothing. “All better now.”

"Thank you," Samson murmured, his voice slurred. When he opened his eyes, the room seemed too bright. Experience told him his pupils were likely the size of saucers. None of it mattered. It seemed natural and pleasing and _right_ to add, "Thank you, ser."

Cullen rewarded him with a smile. “Oh, how I’ve missed those words.”

Samson smiled back at him, stoned out of his gourd and entirely at peace with the world. In that moment, he couldn’t have said what year it was or even where he was, everything wiped away by an overwhelming sense of bliss. It was moments like this that the circlet’s effect on his mind was the most obvious. Whenever he was resting, or near sleep, or just pleasantly idle, he was nearly overcome by contentment, contentment that flew in the face of logic and his own survival. It came as naturally as a daydream, and he often only realized it after the fact. Right now, with the lyrium chiming in his head, he was as peaceful as a cat on a cushion, basking in the sun.

It could be like this always. It could be like this forever. All his reasons for not giving in seemed distant and silly. Wasn’t the world already lost? Wasn’t it easier to lay here with Cullen, as he had in better days? Cullen, who only wanted to help him, to keep him safe...

Nuzzling against Cullen's thigh, inhaling the familiar scent of him, Samson asked, "Sure you don't want me to suck you off, ser?"

He had always been a fan of the way Cullen squirmed and whined when Samson was putting it to him.

“As much as I would love your mouth on my cock, I think you’ve been spoiled enough.” Cullen’s voice was amused, not reproachful.

Samson made an unhappy noise and butted his head against Cullen's hand. "Keep petting my hair, then?"

He'd always found it extraordinarily soothing, ever since he’d been a child. Cullen said nothing, but resumed stroking Samson’s hair. His calluses sometimes caught on a stray strand, but his touch was kind. Samson hummed, content, and rested his head back on Cullen's thigh as he rode out the crest of the lyrium's effects. So good, _so good_. For a while, there was nothing in the world besides them and the transcendent peace of lyrium.

Several minutes passed before reality began to intrude on Samson's little bubble, and his eyes snapped open. "Oh. Fuck."

He looked up at Cullen, cheeks flaming red in humiliation.

“Returned to your senses already? How sad for you.” Cullen practically purred the words, his voice low and pleased.

Maker’s breath, how long had he been staring down at Samson, watching him coo and rub against his thigh like a strumpet? If Cullen had wanted proof that the circlet was working, Samson couldn’t have handed him anything better.

"I--" He pushed away from Cullen's thigh, stumbling to his feet. "It was just--it doesn't mean anything!"

Cullen watched him, teeth glinting in a small smile, and just said, “If only the Inquisitor could have seen you.”

The thought sent icy cold shame shooting through him. Ever the tactician, Cullen knew just where to press to make it _hurt_ . Andraste’s arse, what must he have looked like, curled at Cullen's feet like a faithful hound? If his friends could have seen him, the disgust they’d feel--

With a wordless, furious cry, he lunged at Cullen, fists swinging.

Cullen dodged the blow easily, and then sent a well-aimed punch into Samson’s stomach before kneeing him in the groin. While Samson was reeling from that (and also trying not to vomit from it, if he was honest), Cullen gave him a final punch across the face that sent him sprawling.

It was uncanny, how quickly and effortlessly he moved. Samson was nearly jealous. Lying on the ground where he’d fallen, he reflected bitterly how damned satisfying it would be to slap Cullen around just as easily.

“Stay down, Samson. It’s where you belong.”

 _So_ satisfying. With a groan, he rolled over to look at Cullen. Leaning back on his hands, he spat, "It was just the lyrium! It doesn't mean anything!"

Far better for Cullen to believe that Samson was still just a shuddering wreck of an addict than for him to know the truth, any version of it.

In response, Cullen just raised an eyebrow and moved his boot forward, pressing down slowly between Samson’s legs. The uncomfortable pressure and warning twinges of pain from Samson’s twig and berries were enough to still him instantly.

As calm as a man at risk of having his favorite body part crushed could be, Samson said, "Uh, easy now."

Expression playful, Cullen pressed down harder.

"Stop, stop!" A very primal panic shot through him. "Fine! Fine, the crown is working! It's working! Is that what you want to hear?! It's working just the way you sodding want it to!"

“Of course it’s working, Raleigh.” He did not decrease the pressure at all. “I’m just putting you in your place again.”

"All right." Samson held a hand up, like that would ward him off. "All right, so…” He scrambled, trying to guess what would mollify Cullen. “I'm sorry that I tried to hit you." He swallowed down the bile in his throat. "Ser."

“Say it again.” And Cullen pressed down _more_.

Samson grimaced, adrenaline spiking even as he made sure not to move and tug on very, very sensitive skin. "Ser! General!" He swallowed back the urge to continue with obnoxious titles. 'Your Muscularness' had sprung to mind, supplied by his completely unhelpful thoughts. "I'm sorry, _ser_ . Can we do something-- _anything_ \--that doesn't involve stomping my prick off?"

“Mmm, tempting.”

He knew Cullen was just toying with him, batting him around like a cat with a mouse. But the threat of being gelded through blunt force a very convincing one. And much as he hated to say it out loud, the circlet _was_ working. ‘ _Your only concern is pleasing me’_ echoed through his skull in Rutherford’s crisp Fereldan accent.

"So, aye, you can just _not_ crush me and we'll--I'll--" He swallowed again and made a sour face. "I'll keep you entertained some other way, ser."

That made Cullen lift his foot just slightly. “Now you’re getting the picture, Raleigh.”

His breath was still coming fast, and Cullen had still not backed away enough to let Samson squirm free. Flailing, he offered the first useless thing that sprung to mind. "Be a shame to smash off the bits of me that make up for my personality, aye?"

“Here I was under the impression that those bits were your entire personality.” But it was said with a smirk, and Cullen moved his boot away completely.

"No, there's also my drinking habit to consider." Samson relaxed marginally and scooted out of the range of Cullen’s foot before standing up. Andraste’s tits, he could feel his heartbeat in his stones. He licked his lips. "So, er..."

Cullen moved across the room, sitting in his chair again. One foot rested on his knee, as if this was a casual chat they were having. “Go on, then. _Entertain_ me.”

Samson laughed, the sound flat and nervous. He suspected Cullen was not asking to see sleight of hand card tricks. Self-deprecation seemed like the safest way to ask what it was that Cullen actually wanted. "Well, you've taken a blowjob off the table, and that's the way I traditionally make friends."

Cullen’s expression quirked into a bemused smile, but he said nothing. His eyes were sharp and glinting as they watched Samson. He offered no further help. It was probably entertainment enough to watch Samson trying not to squirm like a nervous recruit.

"I..." He tried to think back to Kirkwall, to what he and Cullen had gotten up to in their rare off-hours. "Do you still play chess?"

“Of course.” Was he imagining the spark of interest in Cullen’s eyes?

Spreading his palms, he said, "How about chess, then? Doubt anyone's given you a decent game in a while."

“I doubt you will either.”

Samson scowled. "Well, that's hurtful." Still, he was pleased that his little gambit had worked. "Just because you won a few games in Kirkwall, doesn't mean you're guaranteed to win these. Where are you keeping the board?"

Cullen stood up from his chair and went to the storage chest next to his desk. Flipping the lid up, he reached in and pulled out a portable chess set. It was currently folded in on itself to protect the pieces inside, and based on how deeply it was buried, it hadn’t seen daylight for a while. He cleared a small space on his desk before opening it up, the hinges creaking slightly from disuse.

“You would always try to cheat,” Cullen remembered aloud. For once, his tone was nearly fond as he stared down at the board. “As if that was ever going to work.”

"Cheating is how chess and cards are meant to be played." Samson approached the desk, picking up a rook. This, at least, seemed like a safe version of nostalgia. "I kept trying to get you to cheat at Wicked Grace, too, but you never got the hang of it."

The mention of Wicked Grace made Cullen roll his eyes and scowl. “It’s a ridiculous game and I would ask Corypheus to outlaw it if I thought it could be done.”

That surprised a laugh out of Samson, the sound bursting from him before he could stop it. "Ha! Still no good at it, huh?"

“What’s the point of even having rules if you’re expected to cheat?”

For a moment, it was like they were back in Kirkwall, bickering good-naturedly in one of the common areas of the barracks. They had argued half seriously and half in jest about everything: politics and theology and philosophy. Plus food, and whether Samson was cheating at whatever game they were playing. (He always was.)

Samson took a seat in front of the desk, settling the rook back into its spot. "Rules are made to be broken, Rutherford, everyone learns that by the time they're ten."

Cullen took a seat across from him, familiar and deadly all at the same time. “Not my rules.”

Samson took the warning for what it was and just nodded, not agreeing or disagreeing. "Set the board, then."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we get Cullen's POV: very intense, very smug, and very full of red lyrium. 
> 
> In this chapter, Cullen gets personal with one of his Red Templars.

Two days passed that way. Cullen ensured Samson was fed and watered in his cell, given weak doses of the blue lyrium to keep him from going into withdrawals. When the day’s business was done (or at least, when he had made enough of a dent in it that he could force himself to rest), Cullen summoned Samson and they played chess. 

They’d moved from his desk to a smaller table near the fireplace. It allowed them both to better survey the board, and the fireplace was more enjoyable. Cullen barely felt the heat of it, really, but Samson seemed to appreciate the warmth. Sometimes he’d catch the other Templar with his eyes closed, leaning towards the hearth and looking quietly content. 

Soon enough, he would look like that all the time, once he stopped being such a stubborn fool.

So far, Samson had only won about one out of five games. He was rusty, to say the least, and he spent at least as much of his time watching Cullen as he did staring at the board. This distraction was likely part of the reason he often played poorly, the way he was today. He moved a knight within easy range of one of Cullen’s clerics. When Cullen took his knight two moves later, Samson just rolled his eyes, the gesture almost painfully familiar.

These games were all the proof Cullen needed that he hadn’t completely melted away Samson’s mind with the lyrium circlet. He had even sent it back to the mages to make some important adjustments. The Venatori had produced several ‘common’ versions to be used on prisoners, but the one to be used on Samson needed to be a masterwork of precision. Now all he had to do was bide his time while they tinkered.

"You know, the ox-men play chess differently," Samson said, mostly to fill the silence. He had never liked silence, filling his patrols in Kirkwall with a constant stream of chatter. Cullen had always found it annoying, but had also been surprised by how much he missed it when they had been assigned to different patrol schedules.  


“Oh?” 

Samson nodded, tapping a finger idly against the table. "Yeah, the objective is to lose the fewest pieces overall, rather than capture the king. Played it with the Inquisitor's pet Qunari before--" He swallowed and looked away, towards the fire. "Well. Before."

“Before you lost the war,” Cullen prompted him. Under other circumstances, he would have let Samson hide behind a redirection. But with him resisting the metaphorical bit and bridle so strongly, it was important to remind him of how he’d ended up here in the first place.  


Samson glared, his lip curling. "War's still going. Bit like Qunari chess. Didn't stop just because the queen's dead and the knight's captured."

Cullen was quietly amused that Samson didn’t rank himself higher in his chess analogy. He supposed it made sense, though. Samson certainly wasn’t pious enough to be a cleric, and he was too rootless to be a rook (or castle, or tower, or marquis, or one of the infinite regional variants of the piece). He wasn’t arrogant or foolish enough to crown himself a king or queen.

“You’re forgetting that the queen was also the king,” Cullen reminded him. “The pawns on the board are there only because they have nowhere else to go. The game itself is over.”

"You're certainly fond of rubbing my nose in it, aren't you?" Samson groused. He eased a pawn forward to its inevitable death in three moves. He was sacrificing it, or trying to.

“I am waiting for you to accept it.” Cullen moved to corner a rook instead, one that Samson had been ignoring in favor of whatever he was setting up with his pawn.

Samson’s gaze flicked to the side of the board, his brow furrowing. Cullen watched him as he studied the new possibilities. Samson had always chewed the side of his cheek when he was lost in thought, his lower jaw working gently back and forth. It provoked a flash of memory, of Kirkwall-

_ “Oi!” Samson leans against the stone balustrade next to him and reveals a handful of cherries, dark red against his palm. “Watch this!” _

_ He pops a cherry into his mouth, stem and all, and holds up a finger. After several seconds of chewing and jutting his jaw out, Samson spits the stem and pit out, sans cherry. The stem is tied in a loose knot. _

_ “Maker’s breath,” Cullen mutters, feeling his cheeks tinge pink. _

_ Samson waggles his eyebrows. “This could be you, lad, keep it in mind.”- _

Samson had been a relentless flirt, always just slightly too deep in Cullen’s personal space. It was a brazeness that Cullen hadn’t known what to do with. At Kinloch, most of the other Templars had viewed him as little more than a boy, still too young and wide-eyed to be trusted with anything of importance. He would never have the chance to find out if that would have changed; Uldred and his abominations had slaughtered over three-quarters of them. The other survivors who had cowered on the main floor below had treated him like he was made of fractured glass, and the replacements had been unnerved by him.

Kirkwall had been a fresh start.  _ Samson  _ had been a fresh start, unphased by his seriousness and tendency to brood. He was irreverent and roguish, and there was something strangely reassuring in the way Samson would deliberately irritate him. At the time, it had felt like quiet confirmation that Cullen wasn’t irreparably broken.   


But that had been a decade ago, when Cullen had still believed the world could be made better. Now, with Corypheus growing in power every day, he could understand that the world needed to be made  _ anew _ . No more Chantry Templars, leashed to a nonexistent Maker. No more Circle mages, caged within and without, nearly as terrified of their own power as the rest of the world was of them. The only things that would survive from the old world were what the faithful brought with them. Cullen was determined that Samson would be one of those things, even if he had to be dragged into that future kicking and screaming.   


After a long moment, Samson looked back up at Cullen and said, "You don't want me to just accept it."

“What do you think I want?” Cullen asked, doing his best to mask any genuine curiosity in his demeanor.

"I have no idea," Samson answered, shrugging. He skimmed his fingers over the top of one of Cullen's captured rooks. "Me, in some capacity. 'Else you'd have just cut my head off."

“Then you weren’t listening. I already told you what I’m after.” But then, Samson had always had a tendency to overthink things, to twist benign statements into insults.

"Yeah, I know what you  _ said _ ." With a sigh, Samson moved a pawn sideways. A neutral move, probably a stalling tactic.

“Have you ever known me to say one thing and mean another?” If anything, people usually accused Cullen of being  _ too  _ blunt. Corypheus certainly wasn’t tapping him for diplomatic missions.

Something about that made Samson laugh, the tone mean. "All the bloody time, even if you never realized it."

Cullen scowled and captured a pawn out of spite. “I don’t recall being very duplicitous.”

Samson straightened out of his slouch until he was sitting rigidly straight in his seat, a parody of a soldier at attention. In a nasally imitation of Cullen's accent, he quoted, " _ It's just a promotion, Raleigh, it won't change anything between us _ ."

That made Cullen snort. Honestly, he was surprised this hadn’t come up sooner. “Ah, so there it is. My most remarkable sin.”

In fairness to Samson, it  _ had  _ been the moment when things between them had started rolling downhill and never stopped.

Samson’s lip drew back in a sneer. "Mmm, you want to be my  _ savior _ now, Rutherford?” He practically spat the word. “Didn't have much of an interest in saving me from Meredith, or Darktown, or anything else."

In another world, in another life, the foolish boy Cullen had once been might have offered explanations, excuses, recriminations. He might have pointed out that Cullen had used Samson as an informant when he could, even when he’d suspected that Samson was also involved in the mage underground. He could have argued that he knew for a  _ fact  _ that Samson had a roughly four month cycle of finding work, getting paid, spending precious coin on whores, liquor, and card games, and then wallowing in self-pity afterwards until finally finding another client and starting the whole thing over again. What was Cullen supposed to have done to protect Samson from his own decisions? Tackle him every time he started speaking to Maddox? To any mage? The boy Cullen had been had a thousand old fights he could have restarted with Samson, if he desired.

But all of those arguments belonged in the old world, in the ashes of Kirkwall where Cullen was only a man trying to serve the will of an absent Maker. Now, in the new world, Cullen was the right hand of a very real and present god. It would be easier on Samson, mind and body, if he adjusted to that soon and stopped chasing after the past.

“I didn’t realize my potential then,” Cullen replied coolly. “I thought that was the way the world was ordered. But everything is different now.”

Bitter, Samson growled, "Oh yeah, real different from where I'm sitting."

“Isn’t it?”

But of course, he didn’t see it. Cullen understood. The Inquisition had been good for Samson, in its own way. It had given him a home, a purpose, something to focus his energy on besides survival and his own grievances. They’d fed and clothed him, giving him a steady supply of lyrium. But like a doting, irresponsible parent, they’d also let him run wild, knocking over all the other village children and smashing in Orlesian windows. Of course he didn’t want to be reigned in again, returned to Templar discipline and safety. Samson had always loved a taste of chaos.

The two of them stared at each other across the board, Samson’s green-tinged hazel eyes meeting Cullen’s sharp red. Samson ended the staring contest first, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just sodding put me in check and end this farce, all right?"

Cullen didn’t move, still studying Samson. He was giving in too easily, a fighter feinting and yielding ground for no obvious reason. Like on the chessboard, it was clearly a tactic of some kind, a sacrifice of pawns to make a hard strike later on.

When Cullen didn't speak, Samson snapped, "What?! You want me to do a dance along with it?"

“...Don’t you ever get tired of fighting, Raleigh?”

That made him go still. After a moment, Samson averted his gaze and shrugged. When it was clear Cullen wasn’t going to fill the silence, he finally said, "Dunno. It’s like...I’m like one of those sharks they'd pull out of Kirkwall Harbor, you know? If I ever stop moving for too long, I die."

Cullen couldn’t help but smile faintly. An apt enough comparison, and Samson was certainly as prickly as a shark rubbed backwards. “I know.”

Something about that made Samson angry, though. With a grunt, he flicked his finger and deliberately knocked over three of the pieces, sending an unfortunate cleric spinning off onto the floor. "Yes, you just know everything, don't you? Bastard."

Holding back a sigh, Cullen considered briefly. It wouldn’t do to reward Samson’s temper with a brawl every time. But in the early days, when he was still getting the unruliness out of his system… Cullen tilted his head just slightly, an invitation. “You want to do something about it, don’t you?”

Samson laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, I really would."

“Tell me.”

"I'd like to knock your perfect fucking teeth down your throat," he snapped.

Cullen stood up slowly from his chair. He rested his hands lightly on the table. “And?”

Samson drew back slightly, his more sensible instincts finally rearing up. "...and I've learned my lesson about trying to do it. Tempting as you make it."

“No, no.” Cullen’s voice was calm, friendly, and his face was pleasantly neutral. He was interested to see if the circlet’s effects would take hold here; he had ordered Samson to always tell him the truth, after all. “Tell me what you want. What you  _ really  _ want.”

Some kind of internal battle was evident on Samson’s face, his lips twisting, and then the words spilled out in an angry jumble. 

"What I  _ want _ is to beat you senseless and stab my way out of this castle and then burn it to the fucking  _ ground _ with you tied to the back of my horse bleeding and whimpering.” Samson dug his nails into the wood of the table, so hard the skin turned white. “What I  _ want _ is to grind your army into the dirt and beat the red lyrium out of you. And what I really, really want is to cut off Corypheus’ head, drink fancy Antivan wine out of his skull, and use  _ you _ as a fucking footrest in my posh Orlesian mansion!"

Cullen tilted his head. A footrest? That was new. He was mildly gratified that none of Samson’s violent imaginings seemed to involve actually killing him. He sat back down and said, his tone still calm and soft, “Those thoughts will go away with time. You’ll see.”

"When you burn them out of me, you mean?" Samson’s cheeks were tinged red, some combination of anger and embarrassment.

“Exactly.”

With a grimace, Samson looked away. "I want to go back to my cell. Think I'm done for the day."

Cullen actually chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. “You think this is some kind of holiday? When you’re tired of your feelings, I’ll just...let you go?”

Despair flashed across Samson’s face before he could hide it, but he gritted his teeth and replaced it with anger. "You just want to poke and prod me until I throw a punch at you, is that it?"

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “You can’t hurt me. What would it matter?”

_ Ah, there it is. _

Samson stood with a shout, slamming his hands down on the board and sending the pieces scattering. "Fuck you!"

Cullen smirked and lazily kicked the table aside, the legs screeching as they scraped the floor. He remained seated, though, arms crossed. If Samson wanted to throw the first punch, there was nothing in the way to stop him, and it would certainly connect.

Samson's fists were clenched, his breath coming fast, his posture pulled into the beginnings of a fighting stance. From the fire in his eyes, he was clearly aching to toss himself forward. His expression, however, was troubled. The one-sided nature of their last fight was impossible to forget. After a moment, he growled, "You can't make me play."

Cullen made sure his smile was small, deliberately hiding how pleased he was. Already, Samson was learning that it was futile to attack him physically. It was like slowly teaching a stray dog not to snap and bite. “Come on. Maybe I’ll play nice.”

He laughed harshly. "Doubt it. I don't even know what you 'playing nice' would look like."

“If you behaved, you might find out.”

"I've been sitting nicely and playing chess on command and not biting any of the guards, what more do you want?" There was an edge of genuine frustration behind the sarcasm. Samson was still trying to figure out what angle he could work, what lever he could use to move Cullen.

It would be best to direct that line of thought someplace more realistic. In an even tone, Cullen answered, “Everything.”

Samson’s face twitched, brow furrowing. That hadn’t been what he expected. He had never quite known what to do with sincerity, even back in Kirkwall. In a snotty tone, he said, "I already offered to blow you."

_ Typical _ . Cullen barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. “I could order any of these Templars to do that. It’s not special.”

The snort Samson let out was almost horse-like. "Sure, but you never actually  _ would _ ."

Cullen went silent, studying Samson.  _ Oh _ . Of course he wouldn’t have fully understood the way Cullen had changed, distracted as he’d been running around with his Inquisition bandits. He likely still thought of Cullen as the awkward, blushing Chantry boy, one who stammered his way through requests for Samson to unlace his trousers. In a way, it made sense that he was bucking so fiercely against the yoke. It was like a horse throwing off an inexperienced, panicking rider in an attempt to flee to safety.

Well. Samson had always learned best through demonstration, and Cullen had just the demonstration in mind. He rose from the chair and went to the door. The Templars on duty turned as one.

“Ser?” The one on the left, Cuyper ( _ trained at Eldorford Hold near the Marcher-Orlesian border, served at Ansburg Circle _ ,  _ three commendations for bravery, _ his mind automatically supplied) asked.

“Get Lieutenant DuMarc for me,” he told Cuyper, and then closed the door again.

When he turned, Samson’s face was amused and skeptical. It reminded Cullen of how his mother had looked when Rosalie or Branson had been telling some obvious falsehood. 

"Seriously?" Even Samson’s tone was indulgent, like Cullen was spinning him a story about how unicorns had been the ones to eat all the strawberry jam.

“You’re still not getting it.” Cullen shook his head. “Everything is different now.”

"You expect me to believe that the red lyrium, what, forcibly extracted the stick from your arse and now you're going to have one of your lackeys suck your cock?" Samson actually laughed as he said it.

The more Samson spoke, the more confident Cullen became that this demonstration was needed. No wonder he was still thrashing and fighting at every turn, if he still saw Cullen as his frightened and trembling bunkmate.

“I didn’t have power then. I didn’t have absolute control. That’s what I want you to understand, Raleigh,” Cullen explained, stepping towards Samson. “You belong to me, body and mind, and there is nothing you can do to escape that. You need to accept that.”

With bared teeth, Samson sneered, "You're bluffing."

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Cullen called out, “Enter.”

DuMarc entered and closed the door behind him before coming to a parade rest in front of Cullen. He only spared Samson a glance before saying, “You asked for me, ser?” 

Cullen nodded. “I did.”

Samson was still lurking by the fireplace. He crossed his arms, tilted his chin up, and raised an eyebrow. The intent behind his expression was clear:  _ Do it, then. _

The corner of Cullen’s mouth quirked. “DuMarc, you’re one of my best lieutenants. You serve me well, and have earned more than your share of hard-fought victories.” 

“Thank you, ser. I live for the cause, ser.” DuMarc practically glowed beneath the words. He was the sort of soldier who responded well to praise and positive attention, who felt every criticism like a lash. He reminded Cullen of a younger version of himself.

Samson, leaning against the fireplace, rolled his eyes and made the universal ‘jerking off’ motion. 

Cullen raised an eyebrow at him and then turned his attention back to DuMarc. “On your knees, Templar.” 

“...Ser?” DuMarc’s red eyes widened.

Cullen lifted his chin just slightly, a warning. That was all that was needed, and DuMarc sank gracefully to his knees. 

“Commander Samson still doesn’t believe in the power we have as Red Templars, or in the future that we are building. I want him to see that we are willing to do whatever it takes.” Cullen unbuckled his belt, unlacing the ties of his trousers with one hand. “ _ Whatever _ it takes.”

It was worth nearly every bit of irritation that Samson had caused him to watch the other man’s eyes widen in amazement. "What?! No, you aren't actually going to-"

And then his voice trailed off entirely as Cullen pulled his cock out, half-hard already.

What Samson would have known, had he been a Red Templar, was that those who survived the conversion process (and now that Corypheus had truly come into his power, most did. Cullen had been  _ quite  _ insistent on it) were elevated far above any normal mortal. They could run for a day in full armor, snap any common man’s bones like brittle twigs, and had reflexes far beyond what should have been possible. Those effects were all intended. The massive increases in libido and stamina, on the other hand, had not been intended, but were fairly universal. It wasn’t uncommon to find groups of Red Templars who were off duty rutting like dogs, uncaring of who was watching. Cullen was reminded of the lewd whispers he’d heard about the Grey Wardens and their preternatural appetites and endurance.

Cullen had never been one to flit from bed to bed, and while that hadn’t exactly changed after the red lyrium, the side effects had become substantially more difficult to ignore. It was a bit like being a teenager again, unable to will his body back under his control. At first, he’d just done his best to grit his teeth and bear it, using his own hand with the same brisk efficiency that he did everything else. He’d been aware of the way that some of his officers looked at him, some combination of hero worship and simpler lust. But fraternization between the ranks like that had always been heavily discouraged by the Templars, and his old instincts had kept him alone. 

Things only changed a month or two after the Herald of Andraste had disappeared in Redcliffe. Cullen had been surveying the conquered, slightly smoldering city of Denerim and realized very suddenly: who was left to tell him it was inappropriate? Who was left to judge him? Were they not remaking the world? Was Corypheus not the closest thing to a true god? 

And so he’d begun taking a few of the more eager officers to bed when the mood struck. He’d made it clear that this was not some sort of love match, and that they could always tell him no. They still came, in both senses of the word. DuMarc had become a favorite of sorts, eager to please and brimming with energy. This certainly wasn’t the first time DuMarc had been on his knees in front of Cullen, but it  _ was  _ the first time they’d had an audience.

Templar training was nothing if not thorough, however. DuMarc hesitated only for a brief moment before leaning forward and wrapping his lips around the tip of Cullen’s cock. Cullen hadn’t taken his eyes off Samson.

“Maker--” Samson choked off the rest of whatever he planned to say. He staggered away from the fireplace until he bumped back against Cullen's desk. While that gave him some distance, it would also give him a better view, something he seemed to realized after a moment. With a final, wide-eyed blink at Cullen, Samson directed his stare straight at the ground.

In the meantime, the attention DuMarc had been lavishing on his cock had brought him to full hardness. The other Templar had caught on to the purpose of the game, and was making some frankly obscene noises as he ran his tongue up and down Cullen’s shaft. When Cullen glanced down at him, his lieutenant winked before swallowing him nearly to the root. Cullen’s grunt of approval matched DuMarc’s choked moan.

“So, you see, Raleigh,” Cullen said, sounding only slightly breathless, “the new world is not constricted by the ideals of the old. We are  _ better _ .”

Samson made a faint, strangled noise and didn’t respond. He was still refusing to look up from the floor directly beneath his feet, and the color was high in his cheeks.

The sight of Raleigh Samson, Kirkwall guttersnipe, averting his eyes like a blushing maiden made Cullen laugh. “Trying to be modest? How sweet.”

Samson gritted his teeth, still not looking up. "I  _ really _ wasn't expecting a show."

DuMarc, ever accommodating, arched his back a bit more and  _ moaned  _ around Cullen, the sound vibrating through him like a lightning bolt hitting. It forced a sharp gasp of out Cullen, and it took him a moment to make sure his voice was steady when he responded, "You challenged me."

"By losing at chess?!" That apparently outraged Samson enough to make him look up, where he was greeted by the sight of DuMarc’s cheeks hollowing very fetchingly, his chin slick with spit and precome while Cullen stood above him, guiding him with a firm hand in his hair. Cullen laughed breathlessly when Samson’s chin jerked back down and his eyes snapped closed.

"You didn't think I would have a subordinate suck me off.” Cullen snapped his hips forward in a faster rhythm, pleased at the way the sound of flesh against flesh echoed in the room. There would be no blocking it out. “You think I’m still that terrified boy you bunked with. You wanted to call my bluff, and so I called yours."  


Samson grimaced, eyes screwing shut more tightly as DuMarc did his best to be as loud as possible. " _ Maker _ , you win. Can you, fuck, come on his face or whatever and send him on his way, then?  _ Please? _ "

Cullen only chuckled. He looked down at DuMarc with satisfaction, watching his lieutenant drooling and moaning around him. DuMarc's eyes were tearing up slightly as he struggled to swallow around Cullen, but there was no mistaking the pleasure in his gaze.

It was something Samson would never be able to understand while he limited himself to the weaker lyrium. It was a unity, a oneness that the old Templar Order could only play at. The Red Templars were more like a pride of lions or a pack of wolves than any common army.

Eventually, Cullen felt a tight, warm pleasure shoot up his thighs and through his lower back. He came with a muffled grunt, hips stuttering to a stop as he shot his seed down DuMarc’s willing throat. The lieutenant gulped it down and then sat back, catching a few stray drops that had escaped the corners of his lips with his thumb. He shot an amused glance at Samson, who was still radiating discomfort and refusing to look at them. Snickering, DuMarc proceeded to make a show of licking Cullen clean.

Cullen kept a close watch on Samson, who only risked a glance up once the loudest of the licking noises had ceased. His cheeks were still flushed wine-red as he snapped, "Well. You certainly keep things livelier than Meredith did, I'll give you that."

With a smirk, Cullen just tucked himself away and turned his attention to DuMarc. “Return to your post.” 

DuMarc stood and saluted, his voice hoarse. “Yes, ser.” 

He made sure to lick his lips as he passed by Samson, and Cullen had to hide a smile. They did like to keep him entertained, his Templars.

As the door clicked closed behind him, Samson stared at Cullen the way he would a lion that had been locked in the room with him. "You...you make all of them do that? Or is he just the prettiest?"

“The most ambitious, certainly,” Cullen noted. He leaned against the front of his desk, considerably more relaxed.

Samson just watched him, the length of the desk separating them. There was something like despair on his face, a traveler who finally realized that he was lost.

“Do you understand now, Raleigh?”

He just nodded mutely and looked to the side, his jaw clenched.

“Good.”

Samson winced, then stared dully at the ground. It was the most passive kind of resistance, with none of the spark or fury of the previous arguments.

“You may return to your tower now,” Cullen said, once it was clear that Samson wasn’t going to rally himself. “I give you permission.”

In the same flat tone he'd used to address officers in the Gallows, Samson replied, "Thank you.”

Even from across the room, Cullen could see the slight tremble in his shoulders as he strode to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is enjoying the fic so far! Unfortunately, we are going to have to put it on hiatus for the time being due to some pressing real life needs. The plan is to continue it once everything is squared away. In the meantime, feel free to comment or message us, either on AO3 or through Shiny_n_new's Tumblr!


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